


never ends well

by elegantstupidity



Series: created out of nothing [1]
Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, F/M, Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-26 22:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12068217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elegantstupidity/pseuds/elegantstupidity
Summary: There were probably better things Mike Lawson could do with his time than try and come up with the perfect tattoo for one Ginny Baker, rising baseball star, but he was hard pressed to come up with even one that was half as interesting.ORthatpost about tattoo artist!Miketurned into a fic





	never ends well

**Author's Note:**

> title: Nikki Sixx quote, "I know some people who've gotten tattoos that they probably shouldn't have, like the name of somebody they were dating, and that _never ends well._ "

Mike maintained that seven times out of ten, it was a bad idea to get a person’s name tattooed anywhere on your body. Which didn’t mean that he hadn’t done a million tattoos of girls’ names on smirking, AXE smothered dudes and a million matching ones on their swooning girlfriends. 

(Why people thought getting matching tattoos was the height of romance, Mike would never understand. Then again, he owned a tattoo parlor. Most of the romance had fizzled out the first time he’d had to mop up the contents of some guy’s stomach. The poor sucker hadn’t realized getting jabbed over and over with a needle gun would result in  _blood._

Seriously.)

But since he also got to charge (many of those same) idiots for cover up designs whenever the regret set in, it was just good business sense to keep his opinions to himself. 

What? Just because he thought his clients were idiots didn’t mean he was going to talk them out of dropping $75 for something they’d regret in a few years. Or days. He wasn’t their dad and he had a business to run. He’d tried doing it a few times, early on in his career, but each attempt went worse than the last. Some people just couldn’t be talked out of their stupid, very permanent, decisions.

As long as his clients were sober and paid upfront, Mike was good to go. It’d been unofficial shop policy for years, and he couldn’t imagine changing it.

Which, of course, meant he was long overdue for some kind of shakeup.

It was quiet in the shop. Then again, it was a Tuesday night and Mike had already sent everyone home for the day. There wasn’t any point in keeping them around. Not with the zero appointments scheduled and the low likelihood of getting a walk-in in the remaining hour. 

That was just fine by Mike. He still needed to finish the design for a huge back piece he was supposed to start tomorrow, and the quiet made it easier to concentrate. It wasn’t like he needed to rely on walk-ins to drum up business, either. He’d built a pretty solid reputation for himself in San Antonio. People even came in from out of town sometimes just so he could work on them. Tattooing wasn’t necessarily what he’d dreamed of doing as a kid, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t love it, now. 

Even if it was a little harder to love when he had to deal with drunken idiots coming into his shop.

Which was exactly what he had on his hands tonight. The bell above the door chimed and two giggly women stumbled in. So much for a quiet final hour.

He set aside his pen and struggled not to sigh as he examined the pair.

Leaning up against each other out of affection as much as support, something seemed vaguely familiar about the both of them. It wasn’t until the shorter woman disentangled herself from her tall, curly-haired friend and marched up to the counter, though, that Mike realized he actually did know her. 

“Mrs. Sanders?” he double checked, although he was sure he was right. Evelyn Sanders wasn’t the kind of woman you just forgot. 

(Mike remembered it clear as day. The way she’d marched into his shop—stone cold sober that time around—looked him up and down with a critical eye, and declared, “If you mess up my husband’s body, I will make your life a living hell.”)

“Evelyn,” she corrected, more steadily than he’d been expecting from the way he could practically get drunk himself off the tequila vapors on her breath. “Good. You remember me. That’s my friend Ginny. G, this is Mike Lawson. He did Blip’s sleeve.” 

The other woman gave him a brief nod, but didn’t come towards the counter herself. Not that Mike much minded when she was studying the framed artwork hanging above the couch so intently. Unlike the opposite wall, which was covered with the the flash that anyone in the shop could recreate without much fuss, the pictures there were all Mike Lawson originals. It was all stuff he’d drawn over the years, but never actually put on anybody. Most of them felt too personal to use on some stranger, so they remained on the walls. 

If, as Mike watched her eyes roam, wide and admiring, he was grateful he’d never gotten anyone to pony up the commission for them if it meant  _this_  beautiful stranger got to see them, that was his business. Still, the soft smile that pulled at her mouth, making a dimple appear in her cheek, almost felt like payment.

Jesus. Maybe he had gotten secondhand drunk off those tequila fumes.

He turned his attention back to Evelyn and tried not to be grateful that alcohol had impaired her typically astute eye. “Do you need something?” he drawled. “A cab home, maybe?”

Evelyn ignored him. “Ginny,” she said, gesturing at her distracted companion, “needs a tattoo.”

Mike raised a brow. In his experience, there were very few people who actually  _needed_  a tattoo. Particularly when they were already tipsy. Especially when tipsy wasn’t even visible in the rearview.

The woman in question apparently agreed. She turned away from the art and rolled her eyes, swaying a little on her feet. “It’s not that I need one, Ev—”

“Oh, yes you do!” Evelyn’s lips pursed and she pointed one, authoritative finger at her friend. “Ginny Baker, you lost that bet fair and square. You’re getting that tattoo!”

Mike checked the desire to raise his eyebrows again. There were only so many times a night he could do that and he’d definitely used up his quota already. On the plus side, now he knew why she seemed familiar, too. San Antonio wasn’t such a big town that the only female baseball player currently in the minors wasn’t pretty recognizable. Even to a guy who hadn’t been to a baseball game in years.

And here she was in his shop. Ginny Baker in the flesh. 

Mike leaned back on his stool, crossing his arms over his chest and frowning. Didn’t matter if she was the Queen of England herself. She wasn’t getting a tattoo tonight. Not until she, and her companion in all honesty, sobered up. If he could convince her to abandon the idea, though, it’d be better for everyone involved.

“You know a bet isn’t a great reason to get a tattoo, right?”

Evelyn swayed just a bit as she planted both hands on the counter indignantly, focus zeroing in on him. “Don’t think I don’t remember you telling my husband all about  _your_  first tattoo, Mike Lawson.”

He rolled his eyes. “So obviously, I’m speaking from experience, here.”

The other woman, Ginny, snorted, her nose wrinkling and her hand coming up to cover her mouth. That didn’t stop her laughter, though, as she finally drifted over to the counter, lightly hip checking Evelyn. She glanced at Mike, her hand falling away to reveal her bright smile. 

Any desire to flirt with her melted away as she swayed again, gripping the counter for balance. 

(More unofficial shop rules? Don’t flirt with clients. Or drunk people, but that was more a personal guideline. It kept him out of too much trouble.)

Mike did find himself regretting his decision not to do any work on her tonight. If she weren’t drunk, he’d probably enjoy giving the pretty ballplayer some ink, even if he couldn’t flirt with her. As it was, she’d just bleed all over the place, far more trouble than getting his hands on her was worth. 

Out of curiosity, he asked, “What do you wanna get?”

“Oh. Um, my boyfriend’s name?” 

Ginny shrugged and her ambivalence was more than enough to cement Mike’s decision into certainty. It definitely wasn’t the disappointment at finding out she had a boyfriend in the first place. 

“You sound so sure,” he replied dryly. 

“What?” She crossed her arms over her chest, sharp and defensive, finally beginning to frown. 

Mike rolled his eyes. “Just thinking you should sound a little more certain about something that’s gonna be on your body forever.”

“I am sure,” she responded, chin tipping up in challenge.

“Yeah, okay,” Mike snorted, shaking his head. He leveled Ginny with a questioning stare. “How long have you even been dating this guy?”

Ginny frowned. “I don’t know. A couple months?” She fished in her pocket for her phone, like she wanted to check her calendar to double check. 

“No,” Evelyn butted in, halting Ginny in her tracks. “It’s been six weeks. You went on your first date right before the boys’ birthday.”

Her forehead wrinkled, but Ginny nodded slowly. “I guess that sounds right.”

“It  _is_  right.”

Mike’s gaze darted between the two women. He didn’t bother containing his skepticism when he blurted, “Six weeks? That’s it?”

Both women turned to stare at him.

“Yeah,” Ginny answered, clearly bristling at Mike’s tone.

“And you wanna get this guy’s named tattooed on you?” he demanded, not bothering to keep the judgement out of his voice.

“Yes. Are you going to do it or not?”

“Not a chance.” 

Suddenly it wasn’t about her BAC, and everything to do with making sure that this girl’s first tattoo wasn’t something she’d look at and hate every day for the rest of her life. Hey, repeat clients were Mike’s lifeblood.

Frostily, she replied, “Isn’t that your job?” 

Technically, yes. But it’d been a long time since Mike had had to rely on dumb kids making stupid decisions to make rent. He’d spent the past sixteen years building up his business, developing a client base, perfecting his craft. He didn’t have to do any tattoo he didn’t want to.

Rather than tell her that, though, he said, “It is. But I’m not about to give you a shitty tattoo you’ll regret in three days.”

“I won’t regret it.”

Mike had some serious doubts about that. “Have you actually thought about this? At all? Size, font, placement?” At Ginny’s silence, Mike sighed. “Did you even want a tattoo before this one talked you into it?”

Evelyn opened her mouth to protest, but Ginny just frowned. 

“I’ve thought about it.” Her jaw set mulishly and Mike leaned across the counter. 

“Sure you have,” he mocked. “Always dreamed of getting some guy’s name inked on you.”

“Not just ‘some guy,’“ Ginny huffed. Her eyes were sparking and if she was pretty laughing, she was something else now. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“You couldn’t even remember when you started dating.”

Her lips pursed and she folded her arms across her chest again, but she didn’t argue. She just repeated, “Are you gonna tattoo me or not?”

Mike’s jaw worked side to side before coming to a decision. “How about this. You come back in six weeks and still want this tattoo, I’ll do it. For free. But,” here, he smirked, “if you come back and have changed your mind, I get to decide what you get. Deal?”

Ginny regarded him for a long moment, eyes narrowed. Evelyn’s gaze darted back and forth between them, a gleeful little grin spreading across her face. Finally, though, the pitcher unfolded her arms and held out her hand. 

“It’s a deal,” she agreed, her grip firm and dry as she and Mike shook. 

Even as he watched her and Evelyn leave, Mike knew it didn’t matter whether or not Ginny changed her mind. She wasn’t the type to back down from a challenge. 

This definitely wasn’t the last he’d see of her.

 

* * *

 

 

Six weeks and a day later, Mike finished up with a client and walked back to the front of the shop to see Ginny Baker waiting on one of the couches, staring down at her phone. 

He didn’t even listen as the receptionist pointed him her way. He was already rounding the counter to go stand before her.

“So,” he drawled, “you came back.”

He’d been so sure she’d return, but when all of yesterday went by without an appearance from her, Mike had forced himself to admit that maybe he’d read her wrong. Tequila could make anyone brave for a night. It didn’t mean she was like that all the time.

It wasn’t disappointing, not at all.

Ginny looked up at him and as with his estimation of her nerve, there was part of Mike that had been sure he’d inflated how pretty she was in his memory. 

He hadn’t. 

Fresh faced and wearing work out clothes, she was almost more beautiful than she’d been that night six weeks ago. Far more comfortable, certainly.

Her lips quirked in a funny little smile. Still, she agreed, “I did.”

“And you still want what’s-his-face’s name branded on you?”

The smile didn’t drop, but something in her eyes turned sad. “No,” she said. “It seems pretty stupid to get a tattoo of your boyfriend’s name after you break up with him.”

“No arguments there,” he replied because what else could he say to that? Actually, scratch that. Mike could always find more to say. “Almost as stupid as drunkenly trying to get his name tattooed on you when you’ve only been going out for six weeks in the first place.”

Thankfully, Ginny didn’t seem too offended. A sharp, surprised burst of laughter barreled out of her instead. Mike couldn’t help but smile in response. Nose wrinkling, she tipped her head to the side. “You don’t pull your punches, do you?”

He shrugged. “I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”

“Well, you definitely called this one.”

There were a quiet few moments as Ginny looked down at her hands. When it became clear she wouldn’t say anything more, Mike shifted his weight and asked, “You ready for your tattoo, then?”

That startled her into looking up again. She squinted at him, suspicious and surprised. “Excuse me?”

“Our deal. I get to pick what you’re actually getting now.”

Mike definitely hadn’t spent the last six weeks designing something for this exact eventuality. He’d definitely thought about it, sketched out a few rough ideas in his spare time, but he hadn’t locked in on anything.

He kind of figured inspiration might strike when he saw Ginny again.

She seemed like a pretty inspiring kind of person.

But she was just shaking her head. “No way. You can’t seriously expect me to just let you put whatever you want on me.”

“You backing out of our deal, Baker?” he asked, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. That was a twist he hadn’t foreseen. 

Judging by the twist to her mouth, Ginny didn’t much like that implication. “No,” she drew out, shifting on the couch. “Just, I should get a say, too.”

He smirked. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“Not even a little.”

It was Mike’s turn to laugh. “Fair enough,” he said before jerking his head towards the back, where his small office sat. “We’ll turn this into a consult, then. Let’s go figure what you want.”

Ginny rose from the couch and Mike didn’t notice the long, lean line of her legs. He couldn’t because he’d already noticed that, six weeks ago. He did take half a breath to admire it, though, before settling back into professionalism. 

Well, as professional as he ever was.

Once they’d settled themselves in Mike’s neglected office—at least his desk was clean of invoices and junk mail for once—Mike leveled Ginny with an expectant look. She stared back, a quizzical brow creeping up her forehead. 

Finally, he drawled, “Any ideas?”

“Oh,” she said, apparently startled. “Um. No?”

“Seriously?”

Ginny shrugged. “I just wanted veto power. Can’t let you put something really embarrassing on me. Life in the clubhouse is hard enough already.”

“So I don’t get to deliberately misspell some shitty quote and put it right on your forehead?”

She laughed bright and loud, shaking her head. Mike could really get used to the sound of that. “Not unless you want my agent to come down here and stomp you into the ground.”

Mike would’ve laughed, too, but there was something in Ginny’s expression that told him she was utterly serious. 

“Let’s avoid that while we can.” He tapped his fingers against the bare surface of his desk before spinning in his chair and pulling out a hefty binder from the bookshelf behind him. She could go through some of his older stuff and see if anything caught her eye while he tried to get a read on her style.

For some reason, he was reluctant to show her the design he’d been toying with the past few weeks. There was nothing wrong with the strong, geometric pattern, though he couldn’t put a finger on what. While Mike was pretty sure Ginny would like it, it didn’t feel right for her. It had been designed with the woman who came in wearing a leather jacket and the remnants of red lipstick. Not the one sprawled in her chair with an unassuming ponytail and running tights. 

The strength was good, but she needed something softer, too.

All Mike Lawson knew was that if he was going to put something of his on her, he needed it to be right. 

So, while he tried to figure out what right was for Ginny Baker, she could look through the binders of his portfolio for some inspiration. 

“Thanks,” she murmured, still staring at page before her. 

“For what?”

Ginny didn’t look up, just flipped through the binder, her jaw set. Finally, though, she darted a quick look at him. When she saw he was already looking at her, she went back to studying the page. They were silent for a moment before she replied, “For not saying, ‘I told you so.’”

Mike cleared his throat and shifted. He wasn’t such an asshole that he’d rub the poor girl’s breakup in her face. 

But, well, it wouldn’t help his carefully cultivated reputation as something of a hardass to let her know that. 

He shrugged it off. “I figure you letting me actually ink you is all the ‘I told you so,’ I need.”

Ginny huffed, but it sounded more amused than anything. She idly flipped through a few more pages, chewing on her lip. Each image received some consideration, but with none of the intensity that she’d given the art out in the lobby. What did seem to catch her attention, though, if the way she kept sneaking what she clearly thought were subtle glances at them, was the ink on Mike’s arms. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his flannel at some point during his earlier appointment, so she had a pretty good view. 

“See something you like?” he asked, dry. Or. It would have been, but for some reason, the words came out almost playful, flirty even. 

 _Jesus, Lawson_ , he chastised himself. _Remember the rules._

Ginny’s attention rose back to his face and she smiled sheepishly. Nodding at his arms, she asked, “Did you design everything yourself?”

“These ones, yeah.” When she looked suitably impressed, he continued, “Did most of my left arm myself, too.”

“Do you mind?” She was reaching across the desk even before he replied.

Mike laid his forearms flat on the desk anyway. “Knock yourself out.” 

Yeah, there were definitely way worse ways to spend a consult than having a real knock out—and Mike had seen more than his fair share of beautiful women in his time—lean in close and run her fingers almost reverently across the lines of ink etched in his skin. 

She tapped at something just inside his elbow, an intricate swirl of color he’d perfected long ago. He started explaining the technique behind it, getting far more animated about it than he usually would with a client. Then again, most clients didn’t lean in and listen attentively, fingers tracing up and down the colors as he described the process of producing them. 

When he ran out of words, Ginny moved onto the next spot that caught her eye and the exercise started again. And again. 

Mike got so wrapped up in walking Ginny through his ink, he completely lost track of time. She was wry and sweet and smart and he couldn’t remember the last time he actually  _liked_  talking to someone so much. Honestly, he didn’t really want it to end. It wasn’t until a knock sounded on his office door, though, that Mike realized just how much.

“Hey, boss,” came his shop manager’s voice, startling both Mike and Ginny out of their eager discussion on the advantages of color versus grayscale, “your five o’clock is here.”

Ginny rocked back an inch, eyes going wide. Mike couldn’t blame her. They’d started this consult around two. 

Had they really killed three hours without noticing?

“Uh, right,” he floundered for a moment, his gaze darting between his employee and Ginny. “I’ll be out in just a minute.”

The door closed again, and Mike’s office descended into the first awkward silence of the afternoon. Slowly, Ginny withdrew her hands from his arms, fingertips trailing away almost reluctantly. 

“So, um,” she said, biting on her lip shyly, “we didn’t decide on anything, did we?”

“No, we didn’t,” Mike agreed. “I guess that means the design’s up to me.”

She laughed and shook her head. “Not on your life!”

“What, you’re just gonna keep coming in until we figure out something we can both live with?”

Something kept him asking if she didn’t trust him again. He was pretty sure he didn’t want to hear the answer.

Ginny shrugged, finally making eye contact again. Mike’s stomach didn’t jump or anything. “It is the off season,” she said, like that explained everything. “I’ve got time.”

“Well, if you’ve got time,” Mike said, doing his best not to grin and failing, “so do I.”

 

* * *

 

At some point, maybe after Ginny’s fourth—or was it the fifth?—consult, Mike accepted that she was no longer just a client. She had, in fact, become something far closer to a friend. 

It was the only explanation. Because while she made for a pretty good friend, she was a pain in the ass as a client. Ginny couldn’t, for love or money, make up her mind about the tattoo that Mike was beginning to suspect she’d never get. If she were just a client, he’d’ve given her the boot weeks ago. 

As it was, he was only gruffly fond of her indecision. 

So, okay, she was definitely a friend.

The main difference was that Mike no longer saw Ginny exclusively in the shop. Sometimes he’d meet her for coffee or lunch or even a run when his bum knee was up to it, which wasn’t often. 

Since, Mike was in the habit of making new friends even less often, his employees took great interest in the new regular coming into the shop. A regular who never seemed to leave with more ink than she’d arrived with. If they’d managed any kind of subtlety with their interest, rather than the flurry of excited whispering—the lousy gossips—that started up whenever Ginny walked in the door, Mike might’ve been more willing to humor them. As it was, he took a certain amount of pleasure in keeping them in the dark.

Not that there was anything to illuminate. Just Mike making a new friend. 

(Which, he supposed, was  _exactly_  what qualified as interesting.)

Because Mike was unwilling to provide more fodder for the gossip mill today, not after he’d fielded no less than four questions about when Ginny was coming back—apparently he wasn’t her only new friend, he’d taken an early lunch and told Ginny to meet him in the park if she wanted to shoot down some more of his design proposals. 

 _v funny, old man_ , she’d texted back, making Mike roll his eyes. How they’d ever started talking about their ages, he had no idea, but she’d practically dissolved in a fit of giggles when she found out he’d be turning 35 in just a few months. 

Well excuse him. They couldn’t all be 21-year-olds heading for a bright career in the nation’s pastime.

God, she made him feel old. But, at the same time, younger than ever.

It was getting to be a problem. One that Mike ignored, but still a problem. 

He had plenty to keep him occupied. It was pretty easy to focus on the puzzle of Ginny’s still nonexistent tattoo. He’d lost count of the number of ideas he’d shown her, only to be shot down for any of number of reasons. If any other client had been as big a pain in the ass as Ginny Baker, Mike would’ve kicked them to the curb long ago. 

Honestly, though, Mike hardly even thought of her pickiness as a problem. It just made him want to pick her brain some more and figure her out. 

So he could pin down the perfect tattoo for her, of course. Nothing else.

Before Mike could dig himself any deeper, Ginny jogged into view, sweaty and flushed and still prettier than anything he’d ever seen. 

She plopped down next to him on the bench and snagged his water bottle without asking. Which was entirely expected. He mostly brought it for her anyway.

For as long as they’d been meeting at the park—Mike noticed early on how fidgety Ginny could get, cooped up in his office, so he leapt on the chance to meet her away from the prying eyes of his employees—she’d used it as an excuse to get a cool 2K in. 

The first time it happened, Mike had been more than a little taken aback. It wasn’t that he was surprised by her casual display of athleticism, though. The woman was a professional baseball player. She was paid (if anyone could call her minor league paychecks payment) to be athletic.

No, he was mostly worried for her safety. A lone woman jogging through the less than pristine parts of town? How many episodes of Criminal Minds started just like that?

Ginny’d had the grace to hear him out before proceeding to shrug off his concern. She jogged to every consult session they scheduled, no matter how many times Mike worried about it. Shockingly, the few times he’d deigned (read: managed) to run with her weren’t enough to keep her in fighting shape. Mike had never before met someone who worked out as hard or as often as Ginny Baker. She was a force to be reckoned with. 

(And if Mike were made even more aware of that fact by the view her clinging workout gear provided—miles of toned muscle and lean strength—that wasn’t quite as helpful as he might’ve hoped.)

She did, at least, soothe his ego and accept the rides home he offered. Mike was somewhat comforted to find out she really did just live a few minutes away by car, but he never gave in and let her walk back home. Not on her own, at least.

Once she was done guzzling down water, Ginny turned to face him, propping one leg on the bench. “So,” she grinned, looking far too composed for someone who’d just run three miles, “whaddya got for me?”

Wordlessly, Mike handed over his sketchbook and sat back to watch Ginny tear through the week’s log of designs.

It’d practically become a tradition. Ginny’d give each design its due consideration, but inevitably, she’d hand the book back with an indifferent, if apologetic, shrug. 

Even Mike could admit that none of them were right. He’d tried every style in his repertoire, from simple line art to intricate patterns of color, from the traditional to the avant garde, but nothing seemed to catch her eye. If he’d been even a degree less confident in his abilities, it would’ve killed him. As it was, he mostly tried to enjoy the challenge.

Honestly, Mike had mostly given up on coming up with anything real on his own. Week to week, Ginny seemed to change her mind on any number of things. Size, placement, color. It was easier to just have her with him while he worked. He still doodled a few designs for her to look over when he had time, but more and more, those were just silly little things to make her laugh. 

He really loved to make her laugh.

And he was successful this time around. Ginny’s sharp, startled giggle made Mike’s attention turn from her face to the drawing. She angled it towards him and he chuckled a bit, too. He’d been pretty proud of that one.

“You want me to get a tattoo of myself?” she demanded, flapping the page, and the drawing of herself in the Rosie the Riveter pose, around indignantly. 

“Hey, you told me last week that none of my ideas were ‘you’ enough. What’s more ‘you’ than—”

“Oh my god, shut up.” Ginny was still laughing, though, one long-fingered hand covering up her dimpled smile.

“Too on the nose?” he asked, innocent.

She just shook her head and handed back the sketchbook. Once the last of the giggles faded away, she slumped a little to the side. It brought their shoulders into contact. Mike couldn’t remember ever feeling more like a fourteen-year-old on his first date with his crush at the movies. Not even when he was a fourteen-year-old on his first date.

Rather than wind his arm around her shoulders the way he wanted, though, Mike tapped his pen against the pad and tried to come up with an idea Ginny would actually like. 

Inspiration struck as he recalled last week’s discussion of movies, and he began to ink in a rough sketch, speaking as his pen flew across the page. 

“What about that line? The ‘There’s no crying in baseball’ one. That’s a thing, right?”

“Not if you’ve ever met an actual baseball player,” she snorted, though she tilted her head to the side to watch him draw. Once, a few weeks ago, Ginny admitted to being fascinated by the process. Mike tried not to be  _too_  into how intently she watched his hand move across the paper.

He didn’t pause in his work as he asked, “You saying your teammates are a bunch of cry babies?”

Her lips pursed like she didn’t want to laugh. Or confirm. “It’s a lot of stress,” Ginny replied instead, far more diplomatically than Mike ever would in her shoes. “Tensions run high.”

“If this is your way of telling me you cry a lot—”

“You are not nice,” she cut him off, lips pursing. But only to rein in her reluctant grin. 

“Never said I was,” he shot back, aiming for snide and sounding far too fond. He cleared his throat and continued, “C’mon, Baker. You can tell me. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I know,” Ginny assured him, pulling at her lip the way she did when she was thinking something over. Finally, she rolled her eyes and huffed out a stream of air. “It’s just— It’s one thing for the guys to do it. If the  _girl_  does—”

“You’d never hear the end of it.”

Ginny’s mouth quirked to the side, not quite bitter, but not resigned, either. Good. She shouldn’t have to just put up with that bullshit.

Before he could come up with anything to say, Ginny tapped his sketch pad, right on top of the finished peach surrounded by fluttery scroll work and that iconic line. She shook her head even as she grinned. “Cute. It should be a nectarine, though.”

“Weren’t they the Peaches?”

“Yeah, but for me, it should be a nectarine.”

“Is there even a difference,” he deadpanned.

Ginny huffed, her lips pursing. “Nectarines don’t have fuzz. And nectarines are what my dad made me practice with when I was learning to throw a screwball.”

“Really?” 

As much as Mike liked hanging out with Ginny, most of their conversations only scratched the surface of anything remotely personal. This was one of the first real details he’d learned about her. Sure, he knew that Ginny was from North Carolina and had a brother. He knew she’d been playing in the minors for three years now and her father passed away when she was still in high school. That was the kind of stuff anyone could find in any profile ever written about her, though. 

(So what, he’d looked up more than a few. Sue him. He’d gone looking for inspiration and got sucked into an internet black hole.)

But, God. He wanted to know it all. Every scrap that she’d give him, he’d take, and gladly.

“Yeah. After I made my first travel team, he wanted me to learn it, give me an edge against the boys as they started to outgrow me. But he wouldn’t let me throw a real ball until I’d gotten the technique down. So, nectarines. He must’ve bought out every store in driving distance for months. I still can’t eat ‘em without thinking about that summer.”

There was a far off, nostalgic look on her face. One that Mike was loath to disturb. So, he sat quietly and waited for her to come back. It didn’t take long. Between one blink and the next, Ginny shook herself out of her memories, offering up a sheepish smile. Mike just leaned into her shoulder a little harder and tried not to dissect how ridiculously pleased her hand patting his arm made him. Instead, he flipped to a clean page and started the process all over again.

“All right. How about this? Now, stay with me, but what if...”

Mike tuned himself out, only focused on the way Ginny leaned in closer and hummed her approval in his ear.

 

* * *

 

“Lawson, you better be ready to go!” 

Mike startled out of the groove he’d seemingly just settled into. A quick glance at his watch, though, disabused him of that notion. He’d been drawing for the past hour and a half without pause, and his hand was cramping. But it was for a good cause. 

It was ready, the perfect design for Ginny’s tattoo. 

He dropped his marker and shook out his wrist just as Ginny rounded the corner into his office. 

She took one look at the chaos of his drafting table—and probably the slightly glazed look in his eye, too—and sighed, fond but long suffering. “You’re nowhere close to ready, are you?”

He blinked and shook off the last remnants of his daze. Adjusting to the real world after immersing himself so intently in art always took a second. This time around, Mike wasn’t helped by the sight Ginny currently presented. 

While he’d gotten used to Ginny in her workout gear and ponytails, that wasn’t quite to say that he’d gotten used to her. To how beautiful she was. In fact, Mike still lost track of his thoughts sometimes, he’d get so distracted by the sweep of her eyelashes, the column of her throat, the shadow of her dimples. But all that was natural, unstudied and unassuming. 

The woman standing before him now was something else entirely.

Draped in a short black dress, her hair falling in soft curls around her shoulders, Ginny painted quite the picture. Mike couldn’t figure out where to look first and had to settle for staring, practically open-mouthed in awe. 

Dear God, she was fucking stunning.

“Earth to Lawson,” she teased, snapping him out of his staring.

Wondering if the burning in his ears was just in his mind, Mike cleared his throat and did his best to shake off the shock. Jesus Christ. She was gonna give him a heart attack, showing up looking like that. Still, he dragged his mind back to the matter at hand: not looking like a complete idiot. 

“Uh, hey,” he managed, ever articulate. “What am I supposed to be ready for?”

Ginny snorted and shook her head, coming fully into the office. If she came any closer, well, Mike wasn’t sure what he’d do, but he didn’t think she was ready to find out.

He, however, might be.

“We’re getting drinks with Blip and Evelyn, remember?”

Right. 

Somehow, in befriending Ginny, Mike had also been welcomed into the Sanders fold as more than just Blip’s tattoo artist. Not that he was complaining. Both Blip and Evelyn were excellent people generally. 

Specifically, though, Mike wasn’t sure they were the kind of people he’d want to hang out with when 97% of his brain function was going to be devoted to Ginny and the way she was wearing that dress. Honestly, there probably  _wasn’t_  a kind of person he’d want to be around in such circumstances. 

A particular person, sure.

“It slipped my mind,” he admitted, haphazardly neatening his workspace, shoving a few stray papers over his open sketchbook. Positive as he was that this piece was the right one for Ginny, he didn’t really want her to see it. Not yet. He didn’t want her to reject it out of hand and had to figure out how to prep her for it.

Ginny wasn’t at all fooled. “I can see,” she drawled, strolling over to cast a critical eye over his work space. “Working on a piece for tomorrow?”

“Actually, I think I landed on something for you.”

Well, so much for prepping her.

“Really?” A grin lit up her face and Mike suddenly knew exactly why he’d told her. She always looked so excited at the prospect of new art to inspect, even if she didn’t like much of it. 

At Mike’s nod, Ginny dropped into the chair that at some point had become hers and arched and expectant brow. “Well? Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“I thought Blip and Evelyn were waiting,” he hedged, feeling self conscious. What if she turned this one down like all the others? There was no way he’d come up with something better.

“This won’t take long, right? You just have to show me the design.”

Honestly, that didn’t do much for Mike’s confidence. Nonetheless, he crossed over to his desk, the finished design tucked close to his side. He sank into his chair and laid the sketchbook on the table. Taking one last look at it, Mike rotated the page and pushed it towards Ginny.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Ginny stared at the page and Mike stared at her. When she didn’t come up with any snarky comment, he began to worry. Ginny  _always_  had something to say. He looked down at the design and tried to figure out what was hanging her up.

In a dark, bold script, the words “Endure. Endure. Endure.” peeked out from the blossoming branches of a nectarine tree, the frothy flowers drifting over the letters. 

When he returned his gaze to her face, Ginny’s hand was covering her mouth. Shakily, she took it away, blinking fast. She made brief eye contact with him and Mike was blown away by the sheer emotion hidden there. 

“Ginny?”

“It’s perfect,” she finally said, a faint frown puckering her brow. 

“Don’t sound so excited about it,” he joked weakly. “It’ll go to my head.”

“You already know how talented you are.”

“Do I?” he snorted.

Ginny waved him off. “Of course. I mean, you should. It’s so obvious, even I can see it.” When Mike snorted again, she rocked back, a little defensive. “What? Just because I don’t know anything about art doesn’t mean I can’t recognize talent.”

“That’s not it.”

“Then what?”

Mike couldn’t help but laugh, short and a little sharp. It didn’t do much for the hurt on Ginny’s face, so he tried to explain. It was something of a struggle, not least because he wasn’t sure how to do it without spilling his guts. 

“You’ve had me second guessing my every move the past three months. That’s never happened before, and I can’t even bring myself to be annoyed. You’re so goddamn picky, but I can’t help but wanna impress you. I didn’t think I ever would.”

“You want to impress me?” she breathed, something far sweeter than pride coloring the question. When he frowned and crossed his arms over his chest, unwilling to confirm, she grinned, bright and vibrant and beautiful beyond belief. “Mike,” her tone was gentle, warm and fond, but even better was the way she was standing up, coming around the desk, and drawing him to his feet. “I’ve loved everything you’ve designed.”

“Seriously?”

Maybe if Ginny weren’t threading her arms around his neck, the exact way he’d fucking  _dreamed_  too many times to count, Mike would’ve come up with a better response. But she was, and the soft press of body against his took up most of his brain power. 

Ginny loosed an eye roll of epic proportions. She’d learned so well. “Of course. They’re all beautiful, even the ridiculous ones. I just—” she cut herself off, a dark flush spreading over her cheeks. 

“You just?” Mike prompted, hands running up and down Ginny’s sides, the light fabric of her dress rising with every pass. 

He hadn’t even dared to hope that his feelings were mutual, but if the way she sighed when his hands closed on her waist was any signal, they definitely were. God, how much sooner could he’ve been doing this? Screw the whole “No flirting with clients” thing. Maybe she’d wanted him to flirt with her. And that was quite the realization to have, even with Ginny in his arms, leaning against his chest.

Still, Mike couldn’t ignore the fact that she refused to continue, even with other, much pleasanter, distractions at hand. His brain laboriously worked to fill in the gaps. A smug smile bloomed to life. “You just wanted a reason to keep seeing me?”

“No,” she replied, too immediate for it to be anything but a lie. 

The smugness of his grin kicked up by several degrees. Ginny’s own mouth lost a losing battle not to smile back, but she looked suitably annoyed by it.

“It’s all right, Gin,” Mike soothed, pulling her in even closer. God, he couldn’t pick a place to hold. Each curve felt better than the last. “You can admit you didn’t wanna give up looking at my face.”

“Maybe if I could actually see your face,” she muttered, though the way her back arched and pressed her breasts against him maybe undermined the point.

“You love the beard.”

Her nose wrinkled, but one hand swept up from his shoulder, along his neck, all the way up to his chin. Skeptically, she rubbed along his jaw, twining her fingers into the short strands. It wasn’t until she tugged, just firm enough to pull him forward, that she murmured, “I do not.”

Since she said it right into his mouth and sealed her lips to his after, Mike couldn’t complain. 

He could resolve to prove her wrong, though.

Just as soon as he was done kissing her, he’d get right to it.

 

* * *

 

Not even six weeks later, Ginny was frowning at the stencil Mike had just applied to her gleaming skin. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, not particularly worried she was going to change her mind at the last minute. She’d made it  _very_  clear just how much she loved this design. Several times, in fact.

“Nothing.” Ginny turned away from the mirror. “It’s just...”

Mike continued to set up his tray, waiting her out. 

“Aren’t you going to sign it?”

“Why would I? Are you going to forget who did it?”

She didn’t laugh, but her frown when Mike looked back up at her wasn’t all that serious. Sinking to the bench, her knee jittered up and down. He laid a soothing hand on it and Ginny heaved a deep breath.

“I won’t forget,” she answered, like there was actually a chance Mike would ever let her. As long as he had a say, no one would be forgetting who gave Ginny Baker her first tattoo. “It’s just. I came in here looking to get someone else’s name as a tattoo. It feels kind of right that I’d end up getting yours. Full circle or whatever.”

Mike laughed and only stopped when she slugged him in the arm. 

Okay, he probably deserved that.

Sobering, Mike took his girlfriend’s hand and waited until she’d looked him in the face. When she did, he smiled, and didn’t even worry about the endless shit he’d get about it from his employees. He smiled sometimes, okay? If it happened inordinately more often when Ginny was around, that didn’t mean anything other than he probably liked her best.

No probably about it, actually.

(Anyway, he’d sent all of them home, wanting the shop to himself and Ginny for this endeavor.)

“Gin,” he said, far too fond for his own good. She’d made him into a total sap and he didn’t even mind. “This thing took me months to get just right. Months of tearing my hair out trying to get a good read on you. Months of becoming your friend. Months that I wouldn’t trade for anything, by the way. It’s perfect. It doesn’t need my name on it. It  _shouldn’t_  have my name on it, not when it’s yours.”

She finally began to smile, though Mike didn’t get much of a chance to admire it. But only because Ginny leaned in and kissed him, slow and sweet. He could feel the stretch of her grin against his mouth, though, which was even better.

When they pulled away from each other, it took Mike a moment to reorder his thoughts. That was the thing about kissing Ginny Baker. It didn’t matter how often he did it, Mike was sure he could be old and gray and the feel of her lips on his would still send him sprawling. 

Not that she needed to know that. She had a healthy enough ego as it was. 

Clearing his throat, he managed, “Does that mean you agree?”

“You might have made a good point.”

“So generous of you.”

Ginny laughed as she lay down on the table, her bare shoulder blade and the stencil on it perfectly placed for Mike to begin work. Before he could pick up his gun, however, she turned her head to the side to smile up at him. 

"I don’t want this to be full circle anyway.”

Well. If that wasn’t the greatest thing Mike had ever heard, he had no idea what could possibly top it.

“Nah,” he agreed, not even trying to rein in his exuberant smile. “It’s just the beginning.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ahh!! The first full fic from Bawson AU Night (which, like fetch, isn't an actual thing) is done! Technically, it's been done for a while, but now it's been edited and is out in the world! I think I have two more AUs in the works (unfortunately not counting my two WIPs, which I really need to stop neglecting), but that could definitely change once I get a better handle on my prompts. 
> 
> Anyway, what'd you think? I know I didn't get into it, but I'm imagining Mike with a lot of ink. Like a lot, a lot. All over that barrel chest of his and up his back (but not completely covering up his freckles!) and please don't get me started on what's going on with his thighs. Hm. Is it warm in here or is that me??


End file.
